


The Gambler

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Consent Issues, Crossdressing, Crying, Desperation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Forced Prostitution, Humiliation, M/M, Power Dynamics, Pre-Thor (2011), Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sakaar Trash Party, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: When Loki falls to Midgard in the aftermath of his revelation as a Jötunn, opportunity falls right into his lap.Unfortunately, his run of good luck doesn't last.





	The Gambler

Loki falls to Midgard in a blaze of fire and smoke, and he lands in the blue waters of a winter’s fjord. The water is freezing cold where it touches his blue skin, and it is anything but painful: it soothes the burn from the fall, seeps into his flesh and _comforts_ him like a hug—

Loki shakes his dark hair back from his head, and begins to swim ashore. He sees smoke on the horizon – it is early in the morning, and the smoke rises high and dark, staining the blue sky. It has been a long time indeed since Loki last came to Midgard – over fifteen hundred years – and he knows not the land on which he stands.

He had been barely conscious as he had fallen…

Catching a glimpse of himself in the still water, he stops on the shore. His clothes had been frozen solid as he’d fallen through the freezing expanse of space, and as he’d fallen, they’d burned away. He is naked now, and he stares at this new, Jötunn skin, brightly blue and with such marks upon it… Loki traces them, traces the white, raised marks at his forehead and his chin, and he stares at them where they drag over his body, symmetrical on each side, only a few of them marred by his scars.

And then the blue fades away, bleeding back into the white skin he’d grown up in, his every scar hidden from view. His hair is still a damp muss about his hair, the grease he wears in it burned away, and it makes him look younger… Younger still. He draws on light trousers and a white blouse, his leather boots forming swift upon his feet, and he moves toward the source of the smoke.

It is a cabin on the edge of a fast-moving tributary, and Loki moves forward, taking a moment to peer in through the glass of the window, and he espies a man inside. He is only partially dressed, wearing underwear that comes down to his wrists and ankles, with buttons that run from the groin all the way up to the neck, and an unbuttoned shirt loosely pulled on over that. He’s approaching middle age, perhaps, but who can tell? Midgardians surely live much longer than once they did… Loki raps upon the door, and he turns sharply on his heel, staring wide-eyed. His hand goes to a device made of shining steel, with a hilt of wood—

A gun. Do they have guns, already?

It really _has_ been such a time.

He rolls the barrel of the thing – how _sweet_ , what an adorable little weapon it is – before snapping it into the chamber, and he comes to the door with the gun held against his hip, opening it by only a fraction. Loki raises his hands in a near-universal display of peace.

“I’m lost,” he says sweetly. “Won’t you point me back to civilisation?” The man peers at him, suspicion plain on his features, but then he closes the door momentarily. Loki hears the shift of the chain on the other side, and then the door opens wide.

“You look young,” he says. “How’d you get out of here?”

“Got knocked from the cliff there yonder,” Loki replies, pointing out to the fjord. The fellow’s eyes widen, dawning horror upon his face, and he steps out onto the doorstep, the gun rested loosely against his thigh as he looks where Loki is pointing. “Could have died: was lucky indeed.”

“Yeah, you—” Loki twists the fellow’s wrist in one quick movement, hearing the loud _snap_ of bone, and he sends the gun pattering over the dirt. As he cries out in pain, moving to cradle the wrist, Loki grasps him by the sides of his jaw, and snaps his neck.

The man drops with a thunk to the ground, and Loki leans down, pulling up the body and slinging it over his left shoulder. Summoning the gun to his side, he sets it momentarily on the counter just inside the cabin, and he steps within.

A fire crackles in the corner despite the summer heat, a stew burning there, and Loki drops the corpse on the bed, taking up a few papers from a thin table. A deed of ownership, a few letters – handwriting study, very good – and some identification…

Perfect. _Perfect_.

**\--- ♤ ---** **♧ ---** **♡ ---** **♢ ---**

They are prospecting for gold in this region. That is plain enough to Loki, and he sinks easily into his pilfered role as Howard Dean, taking on his clothes and his face and his hoarse, low voice. It is a matter of the greatest ease, and as the days pass, Loki begins to relax into his new role.

The thing is?

Dean had been a _terrible_ prospector.

From what Loki can make of what leads he has cobbled together, Dean hadn’t known the first bloody _thing_ about prospecting or mining, and all the documents within his little cabin are shoddy, and scarcely worth the paper they are written on. What obscenity – what nonsense.

Loki soon discovers that many of the men up here in the Alaskan valleys are made of similar stuff. It would seem many of them travel far north in search of the easy money, and know not the skills that might draw in such wealth. Idiots, morons, each and every one of them.

Of course, they make for easy pickings.

Loki dives off the cliff. He hears some of the others shout out in horror and surprise, but his swan dive is graceful and easy, and his strokes bring him quickly to the edge of the cliffside, letting him dig slow into the cave. The river has already run it open, and it would be easier for him to find somewhere to dig a shaft down from within… But the fact of the matter is that Loki will not need to dig a mineshaft. His mine will be secret, with no miners, no equipment, and no risk.

He does not need light to see in the utter darkness of the cave system. Loki can feel where he is with his magic alone, and he focuses on moving further and further into the network. It’s glorious, to feel the strength of the cliff above his head, feel the sheer weight of it far above him, and he inhales slightly, his chest tight… When the cave opens out big and wide around the water, over a natural pool, Loki snaps his fingers, making fire gather in his palm before hovering slowly into the air.

Every wall glitters in the most beautiful gold, with a few streaks of silver. He thinks of himself and Thor, gold and silver for the longest time… But Thor is but a figment of Loki’s history now, revealed as he had been as a Jötunn and disgraced as prince – now, Loki is free, and he will be _rich_.

Loki grins.

**\--- ♤ ---** **♧ ---** **♡ ---** **♢ ---**

It is a year later that Loki leaves Alaska.

In recent months, he has been more and more anxious. He has heard tell of strange shapes in the sky, out east, and that unnerves him: he would not be in Alaska if Thor is to chase him to Midgard, and he has more than enough money gathered beneath his belt. And so he purchases for himself a horse, names her _Gull_ , and the two of them ride south and south, riding close to the West Coast…

And he does not stop until he reaches—

Well. To call it civilisation would be a joke to say the least.

He rides and he rides, for months on end, and… It’s beautiful. It _is_ beautiful, when Loki has time to enjoy the desert, to enjoy the wide-reaching hills and mountains. He rides east when he gets tired of riding south, and he dips in at one town and the next. None of them feel right – although if any of them will ever feel right, on this strange little world, he knows not.

The people always strike him as odd, uneducated and without structure. This country is as yet new, barely formed, and savages roam the lands, murdering the natives as if they have the right to. Loki kills a thousand cowboys at least, as he makes his way on his journey.

It is a town in Nevada that renders him speechless. Straddling Gull, he stands at the town’s gate, and he feels… _Power_. Yes. Yes, he knows it already, this is the place, this is the place—

 _Welcome to Found_ , says the wooden sign at the entrance. _Lost is behind you_. _Founded by En Dwi Gast, 1882._

Loki smiles, for the first time in months of travel. He tethers his horse, and he shifts into town, checking his reflection in the dusty window of the barber’s, removing his hat. Somewhere in Tacoma, he had abandoned the face of Howard Dean behind him, picking up his own once more, and he looks—

He looks too pale. He knows that he does, because it’s the first thing people comment on, but he doesn’t burn in the sun either, and Loki’s hair is pushed back behind his ears in thick, dark waves; he wears a tight shirt tucked into his trousers. He wears a gun at his hip, but within his jacket he hides his daggers, as ever, and…

Perhaps it speaks to the monster within him, but he fits in well amidst these vicious Midgardians, for he can be vicious himself. But here, _here_ … Loki sees a _For Sale_ sign over an old storefront, and his lips quirk into a slight smile as he walks further into town, moving for the saloon. The best way to pick up local gossip, and the best place to relax into a new… Rhythm.

Found is one of the biggest towns he’s seen out this way, and the saloon is no different – it is the biggest he has ever been in on Midgard, and he feels his breath catch in his throat as he stands in the doorway. There is more power here, more, and he is intoxicated by it – it has been nearly _two years_ since he has known the touch of magic, and this is glorious. It settles on his skin, soothes his seiðr like the press of cool water, and Loki sighs, sinking into it just as he would a bath.

Speaking of…

“Excuse me,” Loki murmurs quietly over the bar, sliding a coin onto the polished wood. The barmaid looks at him with her eyebrows raised, her wig slightly askew where it rests on her head. “If I might ask of you a glass of sarsaparilla, and if I could ask a recommendation – where might a man best seek out a bath and a warm bed in this lovely little town?”

“You got a funny accent,” she says.

“I’ve even funnier stories,” Loki replies. “A sarsaparilla?” She twists her mouth, looking him up and down, but then she takes a step back, reaching for the bottle and pouring him a glass.

“You some kinda fairy? What, you don’t drink liquor?” That’s _exceedingly_ on the nose, and she watches him carefully, evidently expecting him to throw a tantrum and throw his fists around. He does not.

“I most certainly _do_ like liquor, but only after my bath.” She laughs. It’s an ugly sound, hoarse and low and sharp, but she grins at him as she slides the glass across the bar. It’s surprisingly clean, and he takes a very slow sip.

“You can have a bath here,” she says. “My name’s Starla, I, uh, I’m in charge of the girls here. You interested in a girl?”

“I’m more interested in a bath, for now.”

“You _are_ a fairy.”

“I’m dirty, is what I am.” Starla glances from Loki’s face across the room, and she leans in slightly, her expression… Conflicted. Loki sees the concern in her dark eyes, in the furrow of her greying brow.

“Listen, fella. You be real careful. Mr Gast, he _likes_ fairies.” Mr Gast? Mr Gast, Mr Gast… The founder of this little town. Alright. Alright.

“What is your obsession, Madam, with my being a fairy? I will be glad to lie with any _number_ of your no-doubt charming girls, so long as I can have my moment to relax, first.” Starla looks him up and down, her expression stern, but then she nods her head, and he drinks from his glass.

“Why you in town?”

“That’s my business,” Loki says quietly. Starla nods her chin stoutly, and she reaches for a key, gesturing for him to follow her. Draining his sarsaparilla, he leaves the glass on the side, and he follows her out of the room. He looks about the saloon as they move along, sees the full tables and the balconies – this more than a saloon, after all: this is a theatre. He sees the red curtain that hides the stage, and he sees a spiral staircase that leads downstairs, into some basement level…

“That’s the casino,” Starla says. Casino, theatre, saloon. Curiously advanced, for an ill-developed economy…

And again, that waft of power on the air, clinging to his skin like a spicy scent. Loki cannot help but inhale deeply as he makes his way up the stairs, in close pursuit of Starla, taking it in. Perhaps there is some artefact in the midst of this town, something that has left power channelling through the dirt streets and the wooden frames of every building, or perhaps one of these primitive Midgardians is a _witch_ … Pah. Unlikely. The white humans are far too uncivilized, anyway: perhaps they are closer to real civilisation, and there is a group of natives nearby. Who is to say?

“You want the water hot?”

“Oh, goodness me, yes. As hot as you can get it,” Loki says as he steps into the room. The bed looks luxuriously soft, and Loki delights at the idea of sprawling on it. There are only elements of his Jötunn physicality that he allows to shine through, but he enjoys his Æsir form, enjoys the way hot water makes him relax, and this mattress, these blankets, _oh_! For months, he hasn’t slept in such fine quarters! “Tell me about this Mr Gast. He founded Found, did he not?”

“Yes,” Starla murmurs, throwing open the curtains and beginning to fluff the pillows rather aggressively. “He’s— He’s a complicated man. A little bit funny in the head. He likes games, likes the casino. You should keep out of his line of sight if you can, sir.”

“Is that so?” Loki asks, and he sets his hands delicately into his pockets. “And, uh, that storefront. Seems like it was an apothecary before, yes? Who’s selling that?” There is a pause.

“Mr Gast, sir,” Starla says. “But you really shouldn’t—”

“I’ve had rather enough advice for one evening, Starla,” Loki says in a dangerously soft voice, enough that it makes Starla shiver. “The bath as soon as possible, if you would.” Starla nods, tightly, and she leaves the room. Shrugging his jacket off and slinging it over the small armchair, Loki sets his guns in a low drawer of the cabinet, immediately hiding them with some illusion, and he takes up a carafe from a shelf, filling it with conjured water and pouring himself a glass.

This is it. This is—

Loki smiles slightly, thinking to himself. The storefront… An _apothecary_. Now that, that really appeals – Loki enjoys medicine, and he would enjoy that, for a little while, to be a healer. It’s been such a long time since he pursued healing, decades, centuries even. He remembers a little extra-planetary rig in the Jad System, recalls being a paediatrician for two years… Stripping off his jacket and setting it aside, he draws off his vest as well, leaving him in his just his shirt, and he is in the midst of undoing the bandana about his neck when he hears movement in the hall.

Loki smile a little wider, and he pulls the door open when he hears the girl in the hallway with the steel tub in one hand, Stella behind her with a large kettle of steaming water. The girl blinks at him, surprised, and Loki gives her a winning smile.

He waits patiently as they fill his bath – it only takes a few trips to fill it with shallow water, and he counts out coins to Starla for the bath and the room each, conjuring them from the very ether. Loki is no fool, and he knows better than to trust some bank on _this_ plane, but everybody knows him as a consummate magician, a man of sleight of hand. For that reason, he never gambles – too easy to be accused of cheating.

“Thank you,” Loki says politely, and he gives each of them a nod. Starla hesitates, watching him with a slight suspicion in her eyes, but she says naught, and Loki is careful to neatly lock the door behind her when she goes. Stripping off the remainder of his clothes, Loki lays them aside, and he sinks slowly into the steel tub: immediately, the water bubbles and rises to meet him, the tub widening to an appropriate size for his large form, and he relaxes in the water.

Loki’s eyes flutter closed, and he relaxes in the hot water, relaxes in this _bath_ , with a soft groan. His tired muscles, his thighs and calves and shoulders, each ache from several weeks’ ride with no hot water to soothe them, and he feels that he may all but melt in his waters. Letting his magic eke out into the steaming heat, he lets it massage at the hard fabric of his own muscle, and he groans quietly.

Oh, Loki will most _certainly_ hire one of the young ladies in this establishment – at least one, anyway. He requires the press and dig of clever fingers into his back, and he will feign himself as one of these humans with their simple cocks and external testes, and drive into her until she _begs_ for him to bring her to the height of pleasure—

And he will.

As he begins to scrub at his arms, seeing the dirt that comes ugly as brown staining into the water, he smiles slightly. Best not to seek out this Mr Gast right away. He will take his meals, establish himself here in town, and let himself relax somewhat. He can establish himself as a new man about town…

There are simple things to be done. Appear as well-dressed, well put-together, polite; he must be noble, and charming… A good lover. He’ll charm as many women as offer themselves to him, and what would _really_ be ideal is to have some nasty little man challenge him to a duel. These humans, they’re still primitive, and it’s easy to make his impressions, to carve himself into people’s very _hearts_.

He settles into his bath for at least an hour, stewing in the hot water and scrubbing every inch of his skin, and ensuring his hair is washed well and is sweet-smelling. There is something to be said for the natural musk of the masculine, but Loki is here to charm the women of Found, delight them with his lovely accent and genteel manner, draw them in slowly closer and make them imagine they rest in the corridors of some manor house fifty years ago, on the streets of far-off England.

Loki is nothing short of a romantic hero, after all.

**\--- ♤ ---** **♧ ---** **♡ ---** **♢ ---**

Despite the magic that settles on the air, Found is not so different to any other town out west.

That night, Loki drinks whiskey at the bar, and he speaks at length with a woman he picks from the line-up. Her name is Anette, and she wears a white corset over her black gown, her breasts a beautiful swell at her chest, her waist narrow. She has hair like fire, the red locks cascading over her shoulders in beautiful waves, and initially she is uncertain of him, distrustful, but she succumbs to his charms within the first half hour.

He asks her of the books she reads, to entertain herself on the nights that nobody desires of her company, and she comes alive. He listens to her speak for _hours_ , buying drinks for the both of them – whiskey for himself and soda for her, although he offers her the pick of the bar’s offerings – and he is delighted to find that she genuinely _is_ rather well-read.

She teaches the local children their letters, and she would, Loki muses in a distant fashion, make a most respectable wife.

“ _Hamlet,_ of course!” Anette says, clapping her hands onto her black-clad thighs, and Loki laughs.

“ _Hamlet?_ Truly? Why, Anette, you disappoint me – how pedestrian an opinion.” Anette laughs, pure indignation shining in her softly brown eyes, and she stares at him, her eyes searching his expression. She reaches out, a petite hand resting on his shoulder and _gripping_ at his shirt-sleeve – they make a rather good pair, sat side-by-side. Loki has seen a few people look their way, approval in their eyes that this new man should pick the crème of the crop, and moreover that he should so _delight_ in her, as he has done for hours now. It would be easy to simply take her to bed, to fuck her, and be done with it.

Loki has more subtlety than that.

“Then you tell _me_ , huh, limey-boy – which of Shakespeare’s tragedies do _you_ think is the saddest?”

“Oh, _King Lear_ ,” Loki says softly. “Every time.” He takes her hand, turning it over, and with one his fingers he begins to trace the delicate lines that make up her palm, making her shiver and making her fingers flex. She looks down at her own hand, soft and small, in comparison to his own, which are larger and coarser – and paler. No doubt she envies the marble hue of his complexion. “What tragedy is in that tale, Anette. The old man, losing control of the world about him, so desperate in his age, so terrified of going unloved and uncared for, that he demands of his children to _prove_ their love… And yet in this is his greatest hubris. He is tricked in his aged foolishness by their false words, and so do they destroy him – and worst of all, _worst of all_ …” Anette’s eyes are focused on Loki’s face now, her lips parted at the soft ache in his words, as he clutches her palm and brings it to his chest, where she might feel his heavy heartbeat. “Worst of all, Anette, when he finally believes the love of his long-since favourite, Cordelia, lifted from the blindness of his demented torment by the light that shines from her countenance, he is undone. He feels her fade, and die, in his arms, and he knows in his heart of hearts that all that has happened, the ill done to him, and by him; the ill done to and by Goneril and Regan; and finally, the ill done to Cordelia… He knows it is all the result of his arrogance, and his cruelty. And oh, how he cries.”

Loki brushes the backs of her knuckles with his lips, and he sees Anette’s chest heave over her corset, sees her try to inhale deeply and find herself prevented by the tightness of the lace. Her eyes are _shining_.

“What say you, my dear, that I carry you up those stairs, and worship you from knee to navel, my tongue serving as my rosary?” Anette’s breath hitches. She is so young, in the scheme of things – he doubts she has yet reached thirty, perhaps not even twenty-five, and perhaps it is wrong of him to render her so starstruck by him, to charm her so completely. By the wideness of her eyes and the part of her painted lips, Loki would guess nobody has pleasured her with his mouth before.

Very well, then. He will be the first.

“Oh, please, Mr Bölson,” she whispers. “I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.”

“By all means, my darling,” Loki replies, and she gasps as he catches his arms beneath her knees and her shoulders, winding her arms around his neck. A few men laugh and cheer. “Call me Loki.”

To calls of _“It’s about time!”_ and “ _Oh, he’s stronger’n he looks!”_ Loki carries Anette up the stairs, and he lays her gently upon his bed. He brings her to the height of ecstasy twice before he slides inside her, and when she leaves his room the following morning, it is on shaking legs like jelly, her hair a muss about her head, Loki’s name clinging to her tongue like a prayer.

Just how he likes them.

**\--- ♤ ---** **♧ ---** **♡ ---** **♢ ---**

With Anette, why, the others fall like so many dominoes, a game he learns to play.

The working girls flock to the line up when they see that Loki is interested of an evening, but he does not keep his charms only to them. He will entertain drinks with the older women who haven’t been so lucky as to make it as madames themselves, will settle easily into casual conversation with workers and ranch hands, with miners and gunmen.

Loki is distrusted for his accent, until people hear that his foreign name is _Norwegian_ , not English, and he demonstrates, to rampant applause, the strangeness of his supposed native tongue; he plays at the piano, encouraging the men about him to laugh and sing together, and they adore him for his skill at the keys; he speaks about prospecting and tells stories, but better, he asks _all_ the right questions when others tell their own.

Telling stories is a skill, to be certain, a skill Loki has half a dozen times over, but lesser known is the skill of how to _listen_ to one. One must ask precisely the right questions at the right time, and pepper in the, “Good God, how did you get out of that?” and the “Quick thinking!” and “I’d love to have you by my side when the going got tough.” One must know when to put one’s hand over one’s mouth, and widen one’s eyes, know when to laugh and when to gulp, know when to remain silent, and then to make for one’s entertainer the _sounds_ he is describing – the distant howl of the lone coyote, or the wailing winds that curse the mountain.

And from what Loki has heard? Gast is a _saviour_. People speak so highly of him, of his warmth and kindness, of the way he uses his money. He’s a gambler, they say, a gambler and a gamer, but he’ll throw money at anybody, offers loans without being too unkind about the debts, pays off the doctors when sickness goes around. He’s a little weird, but he’s _kind_ – he likes to take care of everybody.

When they speak of their delight in Gast, in how kind he is, how sweet, how generous – if a little easily distracted – their words ring true, and Loki parses no deception.

All sounds good to Loki.

The only person that seems to distrust Gast, who seems a little uncertain, is Starla, but after the first night she never says a word against him.

It is after two weeks in Found that a fellow asks him, “Hey, Loki. How come ya never go down to the casino, huh? Look at you, all that cash to throw around—”

“I hardly have _all that_ cash, John,” Loki says, clucking his tongue, and a few of the other men jeer and laugh, shoving him in the shoulder. They disbelieve him, but they know him to be what he is – a would-be businessman – and most of them do not envy him. He is polite and he is gentle, even admitting his desire to open a proper schoolhouse for Anette to teach in when they believe him quite drunk, and that is a respectable use of his wealth. “What _meagre_ savings I have, I possess perhaps because I do not gamble.”

“Never?” asks Henry Galette, a man with a most impressive, thick moustache and brawny, beefy arms – the barber. “Y’ain’t _never_ gambled?” Loki leans back, and for a long few moments, he allows the silence to hover in the air, looking uncertainly between the other men. Two of them are ranchers, but the others are locals from town. John is a lawyer; Fate Collins and his brother Gabe are labourers, who are in and out of Found.

 _“Well,”_ Loki says, running a nervous hand through his hair, which is loose around his shoulders (the women love it), his expression suddenly shy. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know how.”

The attitude about him changes immediately. All of the men are on their feet, laughing and passing him between them as they drag him toward the spiral staircase, and Loki laughs at the ribaldry of it, at the oh-so-masculine way they drag another man unto what they believe is _sin_. Distantly, Loki feels a pang of homesickness, for Thor, for Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg—

But that is far behind him now.

“Come on, Loki,” Fate says, his hoarse voice low as he drags Loki down stairs, and Loki laughs as he stumbles, falling against Fate’s chest as he trips on a too-thin stair. He feels the way Fate stiffens slightly, feels the way his breath hitches in his throat, and immediately Loki delicately retracts his hand, his eyes hardening before he takes the rest of the steps hurriedly. He has noticed Fate Collins watching him in the past weeks, felt his gaze linger on Loki’s hips or thighs – unacceptable.

No, he cannot entertain that, even for the amusement of playing with some secreted tryst with another man. Loki knows what image he must present of himself: cultured and genteel, with an edge of steel beneath, firm and upstanding. To be set in amongst those who buy into that which these foolish Midgardians think to be _perversion_ , to allow himself to be unmanned…

No.

No, Loki needs to be seen as strong, virile, a paragon of the masculine: everything he was not upon Asgard, he shall be here.

But the _magic_. When Loki realises himself, stood on the red carpeting of the casino, he gasps, his hand moving to his chest. If the power upstairs, tingling but comfortable, had been all-encompassing, this? This is unspeakable. Loki catches himself on the bannister of the stair, his palm spreading on his chest, and he feels his seiðr adjust to the flor.

This power is _awesome_. There must be some insulation between the casino’s ceiling and the theatre floor, because Loki had felt but a fraction of it, and it is thick on the air, thick and _glorious_. A rich, sweet scent fills his nostrils, pleasant enough to make his mouth water but not cloying enough to make him choke; the room itself is decorated in reds and golds and shining blues, and the casino tables and devices flash with bright lights and shining metals; and the people! There are so many people…

Loki has seen people come and go, of course, into and out of the casino, but there are strangers down here he has never before espied, strangers he _ought_ have seen, in two weeks above ground.

The hedonistic pleasure, the magical tingle upon his flesh, is caught short. The effect of the charm is doused by Loki’s self-awareness, but he takes care to retain his expression of delighted awe, of wonder. Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, he has chosen… _Poorly_.

This is no artefact, and it is certainly no Midgardian sorcerer. This is something ancient, something that tastes of far-distant starts – and something far more powerful than the Allfather, let alone Loki himself.

“Loki?” Gabe Collins asks. His brother remains at a distance to Loki, behind his brother’s shoulder, his shoulders slightly stiff and his eyes downcast. “You okay there, stud?”

“I feel abruptly faint,” Loki mumbles, feigning a flop sweat (as if he’s so much as sweated a bead in his _life_ ) and dragging the back of his hand over his forehead. “It’s come on so suddenly, I— I do apologise. Henry, my friend, would you help—” He fakes a stumble, and Galette’s meaty hand catches his harm, a steadying hand on his back.

“I’ll help you upstairs,” Galette says immediately, his tone kind, and Loki feels relief. “You—”

“Whoa,” says another voice. “Whoa, hey, hey there, uh, Henry, who is _this_?”

“Oh, Mr Gast,” Galette says, shaking his head. Loki keeps his head bent down as if he is about to be sick, his hair hiding his face. “This is Loki Bölson, that prospector who rocked into town? We were gonna take him to the poker table, but he’s come over all sick – I’ll take him upstairs, sir, we’re sorry, I—”

“Give it a second, Henry,” Gast says. It is an order, and Loki hears it as one, just as he had heard the fear in Galette’s voice. Galette’s strong hand shivers slightly where it holds Loki tight, and as he feels the man grow closer, stepping across the red carpet, as he feels the source of this obscene, of this unimaginable, unspeakable, ineffable power _grow closer_.

For the first time in two years, since hurling himself from the Bifrost and down unto Midgard, Loki feels fear.

Breathing in shakily, he leans heavily on Galette’s arm, and he pulls himself to stand straight, then turns neatly upon his heel. Mr Gast is dressed in distinctly inhuman fabrics: his shirt sleeves shine of a spun-gold fabric, the vest overtop made of a blue leather Loki recognises as made from the hide of a gvorne. His trousers, which are tight and tucked into similarly blue boots, are a bright red, and Loki can see a stripe of electric blue painted on his chin, and—

And _kohl_ at his eyes. It makes their golden haze stand out from the golden brown of Gast’s flesh, and Loki looks at the soft silver grey of his carefully styled hair, at the blue shining paint on his fingernails. He takes all this in, hoping it will distract him from the unspeakable power that radiates from Gast like heat from a _sun_ , and it does not. He can feel Gast’s power work its way over his skin, _into_ his skin, and he shudders, choking out an ugly little noise.

Mr Gast smiles, his golden eyes glittering with cheer, and Loki feels Galette’s hand draw away from him.

“Kinda rude, don’tcha— Don’tcha think?” Mr Gast asks softly, his voice low and deliberate as he takes a slow step forward. He’s tall, taller than Loki by two inches – and that is only extended by the heel in his boots. Loki stands straight, doing his best not to shake himself, and he keeps himself as still as marble. “Faking sick so that, uh, so that you don’t have to play cards?”

“I’m not much of a gambler, Mr Gast,” Loki says, in scarce more than a whisper. The casino’s devices and tables have stopped, and Loki is aware that every eye in the room is focused on him and on Gast, expressions of fear and caution showing in all their faces. “My apologies, I will take my leave with immediacy.”

“No, you won’t. Bölson, isn’t it? Loki Bölson?” Gast says. Loki’s boots are glued to the spot. He takes in a shaky breath as Gast comes closer, as his heat comes and lands warmth on Loki’s skin, and Loki has to keep himself from shivering, and he inhales the spice of a planet Loki has been to before, a planet… His hand touches Loki’s cheek, and Loki’s eyes clench tightly shut. Gast’s hand is huge and incandescently hot, his fingers playing so gently over the fabric of Loki’s cheek. “Oh, honey, they— You know, people’ve been mentioning you around, baby.”

Loki cannot resist when En Dwi pushes him back against the stair’s curve, his fingers splayed against Loki’s neck: his magic keeps him completely still, prevents him from tearing himself free or fighting away from it, prevents him even from parting his lips to protest.

“People said you were, _mmm_ , a big strong man… Good with the ladies, good with your hands…” Gast grasps at one of his wrists, holding Loki’s hand palm up and playing over the lines there. “I don’t know. You seem pretty— Well, pretty _pretty_ to me. Were you really a _miner_?”

“Let me go,” Loki whispers, the sounds choked. “I’m sorry, Mr Gast, I had no idea that you were… I would not have trespassed had I known what you were, I’ll—”

“Oh?” Gast interrupts him, and he leans in so close that Loki can feel his hot breath against Loki’s lips. “And… _Sweetie_. Tell me. What am I?” There’s a dangerous hardness in his golden eyes, his playful expression fading slightly, and he squeezes Loki’s hand tightly in his own.

“You’re powerful,” Loki whispers. “You’re from— From where, S’iort’o? Frunt? You’re form the Farese Nebula.” Gast’s lips twitch. The amusement comes back, but it’s more than amusement – there’s surprise there, too, surprise and _delight_.

“Oh, you…” The magic is released. Loki shudders, heaving in a gasp, and he looks Gast in the face, Gast who is beaming brightly, his hands clasped together. The blue paint on his fingernails shines in the light, and Loki stares at him. “Tell you what. I—” Gast trails off, chuckling, and murmurs, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Honey, you ain’t got, uh, you ain’t got nothing to fear from me. Tell you what. Sit down at the bar with me, have a drink, and just— We’ll, ha, have a chat, okay? And then I’ll send you on your way.”

“With all due respect, Mr Gast,” Loki says, “my every instinct is telling me to flee from here to the ends of the universe.” Gast laughs.

“Well, _yeah_ , it, uh, it would. But you don’t strike me as the kinda guy to listen to instinct when there’s a _real fun_ stupid impulse to lean into instead.” Loki laughs. It’s short and huffed and low, but he feels some of the tension, some of the terror, leave his body. Gast is clapping his hands, vaguely gesturing for everybody to go back to their business, but his golden gaze rests on Loki.

The power is— It’s less stifling, now. Gast is keeping it to himself, no longer letting it prickle over Loki’s flesh, and Loki— Norns, he should run. He should run right now, throw himself up these stairs and not even stop to grasp for his case and his horse – just flee right into the blackness of space, and move onto another realm entirely.

But Gast, he has such a charming, secretive smile on his face. His lips quirk up, his index finger resting against his lips. “You can leave, if you, uh, if you really wanna,” Gast murmurs, gesturing to the stairs. He smiles, a little wanly, and shrugs his skinny shoulders. “I… You know, these humans, they’re _cute_ , but they’re not like real people, ya know? I, uh…” Gast’s gaze flits down Loki’s body, from his face down over his chest, his hips, his legs. Flits back up, meets Loki’s eye. “I miss real people.” It feels honest. Loki’s power over deceit and honesty swings not one way or the other, but Gast says it with a truthfulness that seems to support it, seems so _genuine_.

There’s a little sadness in his ancient eyes.

“I ought go,” Loki says, taking a slow step back toward the stairs. He grips at the bannister, and he looks up toward the theatre once more. Gast spreads his hands, giving a polite inclination of his head, and he takes a step back. “My apologies, Mr Gast: we are each on Terra for our own reasons, and we really oughtn’t…”

“No, no, I understand,” Gast murmurs. “Sorry about the, uh, the _touchy-feely_. I thought you were just one of these… Humans.” Gast chuckles, and he turns away. Loki lingers on the first stair, watching Gast walk away. As he moves, his hips move, and Loki can see the curve of his backside beneath the tight trousers, the surprising muscle of his thigh, the grace with which he moves, a sort of—

A delicacy.

Who is he? Somebody from the Farese Nebula, one of the oldest nebulae in the _universe_ , here, on Midgard, and with such insatiable power… Loki’s mouth is dry. He couldn’t… If Gast were to harm him, he could, easily – he has more than enough power. If he wanted to hurt him, he would right now. And Loki has been lonely, hasn’t he? Hasn’t it ached, to be away from anybody who could understand his position, who could understand _him_?

Oh, this is foolish of him. Loki is so _foolish_.

He steps from the stair, and he walks after Gast, further into the casino. Gast is ordering a drink at the bar – the bottles are clean here, clean and with brightly coloured spirits. He’s invented the cocktail here in the Wild West, and Loki cannot help but smile slightly at the sight of it.

“Is that a Cardassian Sunrise?” he asks. Gast turns to look at him, surprised, and he beams.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmurs. “You want one?” He looks at Loki like Loki is a sunrise himself, like he’s _beautiful_ , and Loki feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest. The Midgardians, they never affect him like this – but that’s different. They’re only mortals, of a short-lived species. This fellow, whoever he may be, whatever he may be… He’s different.

“Oh, Norns, no,” Loki says. “Pray, have you Gov?”

“Gov?” Gast repeats. “What, the stuff made of Grappa fruit? What, you— Honey, you don’t, uh, you don’t look Ionian to me.”

“I’m not,” Loki murmurs. “But I like an acidic twist.” Gast grins, and he taps a fingernail on the bar.

“Topaz, honey, would you pour my new friend here a tall glass of Gov? Make sure to wear the gloves.” Topaz is a tall woman, broad-shouldered and scowling with tattoos on her forehead and about her eyes – a Gwendorian, Loki would guess, from the shape of them. She wears a suit, a black cravat tied in a neat bow at her neck, and she slowly slides the gloves on, reaching for the black bottle. She looks very disapprovingly at Loki, and Loki takes a seat at the bar, beside Gast. “Where’re you from?”

“Yaro,” Loki lies, with an easy, slightly shy, smile. “In the Lei Nebula.” Gast looks him up and down, his eyebrows arching.

“You… Mmm, honey, you don’t exactly look like a _Leian_ either.” Loki laughs – he is grateful that deception comes so easily to him, for what Gast says is true. The Leians are descended from complex insects, and as himself on Yaro, his exoskeleton is a chitinous gold, his mandibles strong, his many eyes… Different. Different indeed to _this_ form.

“I’m a shapeshifter, Mr Gast,” Loki says. “My form would rather prompt a few stares, to say the least, were I to wear it naturally upon this planet, wouldn’t you say? My name on Yaro is Aspling.” And that is true – Loki is a God of Storytelling to Leians across the nebula, and he sees Gast smile. There’s a gratitude shining in his eyes, a sort of gladness to have Loki here with him. When has anybody ever looked so _pleased_ that Loki is speaking with them? Ever?

“Really? That’s… That’s _cute_. What brings you to Terra?” Gast’s tone is conversational, but he looks curious, too, and Loki wonders if it ought thrill him so much to have captured Gast’s attention. He knows nothing about the man, and yet, and yet—

Two _years_.

“I fell from a tradeship, a few years back,” Loki says, shrugging his shoulders. “Couldn’t contact home, so I figured I’d just make my life here, wait until they develop a proper set of satellite frequencies, and then call home.” Gast reaches out, touching the back of his hand, and Loki inhales softly. Just as their conversation is ignored, so too is the physical contact between them, and the touch of it makes Loki _thrill_ , the power surging through his very bloodstream.

“I could help you,” Gast offers, trying to wink, and instead succeeding only in a very odd, stuttered blink of both eyes.

“No,” Loki says delicately, shaking his head. “I’m— I was thinking I might set up an apothecary, live here for a few decades… It’s a lovely change from the bustle of the rest of the universe.” Gast nods, his thumb playing gentle over Loki’s wrist, and Loki swallows. “And— And yourself, Mr Gast? Pray, what brings you here, from so far away? The Farese Nebula is at the very centre of the universe, or near to it. From which planet to do you hail?”

“Oh, my, uh, my planet’s gone, baby,” Gast murmurs, shrugging his shoulders. “My planet burned up, _ooh_ , a long, long time ago.” His eyes are distant, and Loki wonders how long a _long_ time must be. He’s never met anybody with more than a lifespan of around a hundred thousand years, but he would guess that Gast is one of those ancients – the Farese Nebula has long-since been home to those who live for millennia on millennia, and that is _without_ their being students of magic.

“Oh,” Loki murmurs, inhaling slowly. What a terrible thing it is, to see one’s planet burn – it happens across the universe, every single day, and yet it is so much more encompassing than the loss of the smaller things. To lose possessions, records, even towns, that is all one thing, but when planets die? The very geography once traced in youth, one’s very standing in the universe, is gone forever. ( _Norns, Loki prays for the day Asgard burns_.) “My condolences.”

“It’s okay,” Gast says. “Yeah, I just, ha. I travel around, ya know, do my own thing. I like to take care of people.” He leans in a little bit closer, and Loki shivers. “How about you, baby?”

“Do I like to take care of people?” Loki asks, against Gast’s lips.

“No, no. Do you, uh, do you like to be taken care of?” Loki swallows. The offer is so earnest, and Loki wishes he could sink right into it – goodness, he is _mad_ , but Gast is so warm, and so charming—

“You’re— You’re rather forward, Mr Gast.”

“I told you,” Gast murmurs, sliding his hand over Loki’s hip. “I miss real people.” Loki’s hand touches against Gast’s hand, and he gently pulls it away. Immediately, Gast draws his hands back, leaning right back in his seat. “ _Sorry_. Here, Topaz, thanks for that.” Topaz pushes the glass across the bar, and Loki takes up the cocktail. It swirls with black glitter, and Loki reaches for it, taking a slow sip. The acid taste of the grappa fruit bursts upon his throat, and Loki hums out a sound, feeling it tingle and hiss as it trickles down his throat. Gast is watching Loki with curiosity on his face, and he says, “You’re not, mmm, not into guys, huh?”

“I’m trying to assimilate,” Loki says, setting the glass down. “These humans, they fear difference. I cannot succeed here, Mr Gast, without presenting myself in a way that meets a certain masculine ideal.” Loki glances at Gast’s make-up, and his clothes, and he chuckles. “Well, I don’t know. Perhaps I ought take a page from your book.”

Gast chuckles, leaning his chin onto his hand.

“Down here, baby, uh— You can do whatever you want,” Gast murmurs, his fingers playing back and forth over his own cheek. “That little _whump_ of power you felt, when you came off the stairs? That’s, mmm, that’s an amnesia cladding, around the casino. They come down here, they hear weird things, see weird things… And when they go upstairs, they forget. They remember the _gist_ , sometimes, but… Nothing specific. Nothing alien. Nothing too, uh, too shocking.”

“Oh,” Loki murmurs. “That’s rather clever. A place where you can— Be quite yourself, even on a planet like this one.”

“Exactly,” Gast murmurs. His hand is resting on Loki’s knee, and Loki swallows. It has been a long time, since he has lain with someone in his base form, felt somebody drag over his quim and play over his cock at the same time, instead of what he’s used to using with the women he’s lain with here on Midgard. “An apothecary, huh?”

“I like to heal,” Loki murmurs. “Remedies, medicines… I’m more than comfortable with such things.” Gast smiles.

“So _maternal_ of you,” he murmurs.

“Paternal,” Loki corrects, a little confused. Gast chuckles, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Sure, Lo-Lo.”

“Loki.”

“Hey, hey, listen. You know, I get that you’re, uh, you were thinking of leaving town… But I’m happy to sell you the old apothecary. Better than it going unused, right?” Loki shifts slightly, slowly shaking his head.

“I don’t know, sir, I hardly think… One alien in a township is rather a lot, Mr Gast. Two is unthinkable, even if one is ordinarily below ground.” Gast beams, showing his teeth. He seems so… So _sweet_. How old is he, Loki wonders? How old could he possibly be? There’s certainly a paternal air around him, a sense of easy care…

“Okay,” Gast murmurs. “Okay, I… I understand. It’s a shame, but I can see where you’re, uh, where you’re coming from. Listen, sweetie, why don’t… How about you stick around all day tomorrow, just until the big show tomorrow night, huh? I’ve hired some dancing girls, and I’m gonna start a new show a few times a week in the theatre – dancers, singers. You know, a real… A whole production. And then I’ll, uh, I’ll see you off Friday morning. I can put in a good word for you, write a letter of recommendation for another mayor, yeah?”

“Really?” Loki says, tilting his head to the side. “Oh, you hardly need to… You’ll make me _suspicious_ , Mr Gast, being so kind.” Gast chuckles.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m a real card. Well, okay, I’d want… I’d want a price. I’d charge you for it.”

“Oh?” Loki asks, feeling himself stiffen slightly, feeling his chin rise. “And what would that be?”

“Write me,” Gast says. Loki stares at him. “Not all the time. Just every month or so, lemme know how you’re doing, what you’re up to… It’s been a long time since I had a penpal.” Again, there’s that note of genuine sadness, of _sweetness_ …

“Really?” Loki says, unconvinced. “You would pave my way elsewhere, for the price of a few pages?”

“I kinda got everything I need down here, Lo-Lo.”

“Loki.”

“All I, uh, want is a little… A little, mmm, _connection_. I’d say _human_ connection, but that ain’t true, I’m a little bored of those.” Loki laughs, despite himself. “You don’t think that’s fair? A letter for a letter? I figure you, uh, you could use a proper connection too.” It would get him a long way, Loki thinks, to have a letter of recommendation from an established mayor – he’s a good liar, but he’s unwilling to forge such a thing, not when lines of alliance are so shaky across the country, when the movements of individuals are so unpredictable. But this, this could be _excellent_ …

“I will take your deal, Mr Gast,” Loki says softly. “Thank you.”

“No, honey, uh— _Thank you_.” He reaches up, touching Loki’s cheek, and Loki shivers, but then leans slightly away. There’s a flicker of something in Gast’s eyes, a sort of flint edge of hardness, but it’s as gone as soon as it comes. “Why don’t you, mmm, why don’t you go upstairs, huh? Take a girl back to your room and… Really go to town.”

“I’m not really in the mood,” Loki says quietly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh,” Gast says. His lips quirk. “Then I won’t take it personally.”

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs. “For the drink.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Gast says, shrugging his shoulders and reaching out, adjusting Loki’s collar. “I’ll, mmm, I’ll see you tomorrow night, huh? I’ll come up, uh, just for you. You’re— You’re _pretty_ , honey. You sure you’re really attached to that whole, uh, that whole masc masc masc deal?”

“I think so, Mr Gast,” Loki replies, apologetically. He feels a little uncertain, propositioned so many times in but twenty minutes, but it is _flattering_ , flattering and— And it’s difficult, not to assent. Not to simply allow this fellow to take what he… What Loki wants to give him. “Perhaps another time.”

“Sure, baby,” Gast says. He really does throw his endearments around, doesn’t he? “Another time.” Instinct flares within Loki: _run, run away now, run away fast!_

He ignores it, and he puts out his hand to shake. Gast takes his hand, shakes it firmly. Loki is reminded of the way he felt when once he stood on a meteor, and watched the remnants of a star system swirl into a great black hole like water down a drain. Gast feels huge, gigantic, _impossible_.

Loki’s very _scalp_ seems to tingle in anticipation, as much as the rest of his skin.  

“Tomorrow night,” he mutters. “I’ll— tomorrow night.”

“Great,” Gast purrs sweetly. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you, baby.”

“The amnesia cladding…”

“Oh, it won’t affect you,” Gast says, shrugging. “Like I said – once it’s broken through, it’s broken through. It isn’t touching you now, it won’t touch you when you go.” He feels, Loki realises, as he ascends the stairs, the truth in those words. He retires to his bedroom, settling on the edge of his bed…

His whole body tells him to flee.

But that, that would be impolite, and the letter… And Gast himself. Gast himself, he is intoxicating, charming, and Loki— Despite himself, Loki is delighted by him, enchanted by him.

He lies back on the bed, and he draws his fingers slowly between his legs, his clothes vanishing in the work of a moment. He plays his fingers over the little nub of his cock, and he grunts out a noise, feeling the spark of pleasure from it. He plays his fingers slowly over his mound, feeling the blood rush downward, and he allows himself the pleasure he hasn’t in over a _year_.

He allows his fingers to slip down a little lower, his fingers playing over his open lips, feeling himself _clench_. It hardly takes long for him to become wet, and he thinks of En Dwi Gast, thinks of his _power_ , of the unwavering control that radiates from him… How would it feel, Loki wonders, to feel him drive inside Loki? It is one thing to feel somebody’s body clench wet around one’s cock, to feel the way their body _yields_ , to feel the beautiful swell of a heavy breast beneath one’s palm—

But there’s a hardness to Gast’s body, a wiry strength that makes Loki’s skin hot. He wonders if Gast would be rough with him, pin him up against a wall as he had done, if he would… Loki groans softly, sliding a finger inside himself and _arching_ into it.

He would be, Loki is sure. He would be so rough Loki could taste it, so rough—

Pressing his thumb hard against his cock, Loki begins to grind himself down onto his hand, and he lets himself wind tighter and tighter at the thought of En Dwi Gast’s body blanketing his own.

**\--- ♤ ---** **♧ ---** **♡ ---** **♢ ---**

Loki stands before his mirror, carefully tying his dark hair into a tight, neat bun. He’s wearing his best suit, a proper thing with no leather on it, with a tight-cinched waist and an embroidered waistcoat, the jacket tight to his shoulders and to the shape of his waist, the trousers straight-legged. It’s old-fashioned, to be sure, but he’ll get away with it as a foreigner, and Gast, certainly, will appreciate—

But that’s ridiculous. It hardly matters what Gast will appreciate: Loki won’t be lingering.

He shifts back on his heels, trying to shake the anxiety in his belly, and he swallows, hard, looking at himself in the eyes. The holster of his gun is plain upon his hip, and he wears two silver rings, thick and chunky, on his right hand, subtly masculine.

It’s worth the anxiety, the uncertain nerves at being before this strange alien, for the sake of the letter, no? To set up easily somewhere else, on his own, and then he can really build himself up, make a practice for himself, even marry—

Nothing like Asgard. Lay down his roots, never have to return to Thor’s scorn, Asgard’s mockery, Father and Mother—

He exhales, softly.

And then he grins, smiling confidently at himself in the mirror and exuding an easy charm, a natural power. The girls will _flock_ to him, and with that, so will everything. With Gast—

Turning on his heel, he moves from the room, and he descends the stairs into the bar. People are looking at him immediately, their eyes on him – many of these people are from out of town, and they admire the figure he cuts, his height, his handsome features, the unorthodoxy of his long hair and his English suit…

Yes, Loki knows how to charm a crowd.

Stepping into the theatre, he looks over the full tables, surveying the room with a faux lack of care. A few men wave to him, raising their hands, and far more _women_ do, gesturing to empty seats beside them and batting their eyelashes, shifting forward so he can see their bosoms in their dresses—

En Dwi Gast sits at his own table in the centre of it all, facing the stage. He doesn’t look at Loki, but as Loki looks at the back of his head, he sees Gast’s right hand go up, and he sees the two fingers – also encrusted with rings, his in gold – shift in a _come hither_ gesture. Loki swallows, imagining that crook of fingers inside him, and he immediately shoves the thought down, sliding with airy grace through the room. He gently lays his hand on the Gast’s shoulder as he slides slowly into the seat beside him, ostensibly to balance himself, but more subtly, to display them on an equal playing field.

A few working men note the gesture, and he sees one or two of them raise their eyebrows, turning to their friends, but he pretends not to notice as he draws his hand back to himself. Gast watches him, his lips quirked into a dangerous grin. Loki is a wolf, much of the time, and he knows the smile of another wolf when he sees it.

“Mr Gast,” Loki purrs. “Such a pleasure.”

“Mr Bölson,” Gast replies. “ _Loki_.” Loki’s breath hitches.

“En Dwi.” Gast’s tongue flicks out over his lower lip, naught more than a sharp pink tip, but Loki looks away nonetheless, to the red curtain that covers the stage. “Are you excited, my friend? For the show?”

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Gast murmurs, with a secretive lilt to his tone. “ _Beyond_ excited, baby.” They make small talk for a few minutes, sipping from glasses of wine that is deeply purple and smells richly of the vine: it can’t possibly be from here on Midgard, but Loki doesn’t mind. The stuff is _strong_ , and Loki is careful not to drink too much, sipping at it very delicately as the lights go down.

It begins with a song. Loki watches raptly as the young man descends from the centre of the stage, seated upon what appears to be a trapeze, and sings to the moon herself in deep, rumbling Italian. It’s beautiful, moving: it’s a slow and charming performance, catching him in his very heart, and it segues naturally into an acrobatic performance, the fellow dancing about his makeshift seat with easy beauty.

When the Italian gives way to three seductive women, dancing as they sing in three-part harmony, Gast’s hand alights on Loki’s knee. Loki sits up a little straighter, but the room is carefully darkened, the lights only on the stage, and no one can see, no one can see… He glances sideways at Gast, but Gast’s golden eyes are concentrated on the show with a reverent focus, and Loki attempts to mimic him.

Gast’s hand plays easy circles on Loki’s knee, his fingers gloriously warm through the fabric of Loki’s trousers, and Loki ignores how ticklish it is, focusing instead on the way the girls dance… When the music changes again, Gast’s fingers slide up the inner part of his thigh. Loki’s breath hitches in his throat, but Gast only _massages_ , digging into the muscle of his flesh and playing over it so gently, his thumb playing into the divot of Loki’s thigh, the _crease_ —

It is when the girls on stage, a sextet this time, drag off their blouses to thunderous applause that Gast’s hand slides where Loki wants it. Loki shudders when Gast’s fingers play over the mount of his quim, and he hears Gast’s delighted gasp against Loki’s ear, where he leans in to whisper.

“ _Really_? Ha, no… No _wonder_ you’re worried about being read as _masculine_ ,” Gast murmurs against the shell of his ear, and Loki grunts as his fingers press against the slight swell of Loki’s cock. “Mmm, talk, uh, about _epicenity_ , baby.”

“I am not worried,” Loki breathes out. “My people both— We both bear and sire.”

“Mmm, so I can feel,” Gast replies. His tongue flicks over the shell of Loki’s ear this time, and Loki chokes as he grabs at Loki’s entire mound, _squeezing_ him through the trousers, and Loki has to bite down on the flesh of his thumb to keep from crying out.

It’s difficult to watch the show after that. Gast’s fingers play slowly over the swell of Loki’s quim, but they never stop, continuously allowing new sensation to flow through him, and as they work through a bawdy magician’s act, another group of women with nipple tassels swinging as they dance, a strong man, a group of acrobats—

Gast’s fingers press harder, more intently, as the acts continue. Loki can feel the tension beginning to coil within himself: he is soaked to wetness, feels himself _drip_ with slick, and he is certain he is to come like this, in the dark in the centre of a room crowded with nearly three hundred people, with Gast’s fingers on his quim, but then, but then!

The last act: a soprano who sings long and slow as every other performer takes their bow about her. Loki is on the very cusp, so close he can taste it, grinding himself subtly into Gast’s hand, _desperate_ —

And then the soprano finishes, and the lights begin to flare once more.

Loki strains to keep himself from groaning as Gast claps his hands, and Loki presses his thighs tightly together. He can feel the wetness in his breeches, bites down hard at his lip as he feels his cock _twitch_ , desperate for that last bit of stimulation, to bring him over the edge…

“En Dwi,” he murmurs as they stand, shivering slightly. “Why don’t we take a moment, step upstairs? I—”

“Gimme a sec, Lo-Lo,” Gast says distractedly, patting his cheek with a palm that smells of _Loki_. “I’m just gonna get us some drinks.”

“But—”

He’s already shifting through the crowd, and Loki feels he might scream. He does his best to control his breathing, control his _frustration_ , as he takes a step back, and he is almost grateful when Henry Galette grabs his shoulder and challenges him to armwrestle, setting him down on one side of a square table.

Loki wins.

He wins against the next five men too.

He is frustrated, and perhaps a little irritable, too irritable: when Fate Collins sinks into the seat across from him, Loki feels his mouth dry out slightly. Loki sets out his right hand.

“Aren’t you left-handed?” Fate asks, quietly. He’s still a young man, perhaps a year or two past a score, with sandy blond hair.

“Yes,” Loki says softly. “But I would hardly try any of you with my dominant hand – it wouldn’t be fair.” A few of the men laughs, and Loki grins too, but his eyes are cold where they meet Fate’s. Fate swallows, but he puts out his right hand: within a second, Loki slams his hand down against the table. Not hard enough to hurt him, but fast enough to make the men laugh, and Fate exhales shakily. “Goodness, Fate. You really ought take your fish oil in the mornings.”

“Ha,” Fate says, retracting his hand. Loki feels Gast beside him, and he feels Gast’s hand upon Loki’s shoulder as he sets a drink – another glass of wine – in front of him. Fate doesn’t make eye contact with him, and Gast _frowns_.

“Well, what’s with the sourpusses, huh? What’d I miss?”

“Nothing, Mr Gast,” Loki murmurs, standing smoothly from his seat and offering it to Galette as he takes up his glass. “Come, we might w—” Loki freezes. Gast’s hand is on his jaw, squeezing tightly, and the glass tumbles from Loki’s hand: it lands on the table on its side, and its contents pours over the wood lacquer before dripping onto the floor.

“You, uh— Huh.” Gast stares down at Loki, his eyes impassive, and Loki cannot bear the way his body surges to meet him, the way arousal returns hot and cloying to his quim, his cock twitching in his trousers. “Were you… You weren’t, um, you weren’t being _mean_ to my friend, Fate, here, were you, sweetie?”

Loki swallows. _Mr Gast, he likes fairies_.

“Merely a playful jibe, Mr Gast,” Loki chokes out. Gast tuts quietly. The theatre hall is obscenely quiet, so quiet one would could hear a pin drop, and Loki is aware of the fact that hundreds of people are looking at them, watching where Gast slowly pushes Loki back over the table. What is happening here? Gast had seemed _pleased_ , could he possibly be so protective over this—? “Please, let me _go_ , I—”

“Fate, honey, why don’t… Why don’t you tell Loki here, uh, what you think of him?”

“I think he’s a fine fella, Mr Gast,” Fate says, his hands in his pockets, his gaze to the floor.

“You think he’s pretty?” Gast asks. Loki swallows, and he tries to kick with one leg, but once more Gast’s magic catches hold of him, keeping him still. Fate is silent, and Loki grits his teeth. “ _Fate_?” Gast prompts, his voice low and edged with danger. People are looking at Gast with uncertainty and with fear in their eyes, and yet Loki is aware that they are beyond the amnesia cladding of the basement below – all of them will _remember_ this, and Loki cannot bear it, cannot—

“Yeah,” Fate mutters. “Yeah, sure.”

“What’s pretty about him, honey?” Fate lets out a soft noise of distaste, shifting back on his heels.

“Mr Gast—” Fate says reluctantly. “I don’t…”

“Oh, come on, honey,” Gast rumbles, a grin on his face as he presses Loki’s back flat against the table. “What do you think is pretty about him, huh? I like, uh, how _pale_ he is. So creamy – like a painting.”

“His lips,” Fate mumbles, string at his own feet. “They’re— Pink.” Loki feels his cheeks flush with shame, and he tries to lash out with his seiðr, but Gast holds that back too, and struggle as he might, Loki cannot work his way free.

“And you, Henry?” Gast asks, conversationally. “What’s _your_ favourite thing about LoLo? Tell the truth now!”

“His ass,” Galette says. Loki shudders, exhaling in rage, but Galette speaks as if he cannot hold himself back: “It’s real fat. Big, round thing – looks like it’d jiggle if you gave it a slap.”

“Oh, I bet you’re _right_ , Henry,” Gast murmurs, and Loki stares up at him, indignant, _furious_ — “See, honey, I… I get that you wanna do the, mmm, big manly man act. But… Don’t you think that’s a waste? I think you’re, uh, I think you’re _way_ too pretty to waste on running an apothecary. You’re _eyecandy_ , baby.”

“Let me go,” Loki hisses, and Gast laughs, his eyes glittering once more.

“You don’t get it, do you? See… I’m not, uh, I wasn’t really a fan of your _tough guy_ act, but the thing is, honey, if you’d— If you’d just let me play with you, let me get a taste, maybe I’da just let you go. Given you your stupid little letter and, _mmm_ , let you run away with it. But oh, you… Pushing my hands off, that— That cute little grab of the _shoulder_. You need to be shown what you’re good for, baby.” Loki is breathing heavily, unable to break free, and then Gast’s fingers move to his suit. He doesn’t even bother to unbutton it properly: dragging his fingers a few inches over his chest, every button comes undone at once, leaving Loki’s chest bare.

Gast’s fingers hook themselves in the waistband of Loki’s trousers, and he drags those down without a care for his braces, vanishing those with but a thought. Loki whimpers, his arms pinned down to the table on either side of his shoulder, and Loki can hear gasps and sounds of surprise as people catch a glimpse of his quim.

“He some kinda—”

“ _Jesus_.”

“He got a pussy? But what about his— _oh_.”

Loki stares up at Gast, powerless to struggle out from beneath him, and he feels the flush on his cheeks, on his chest, as Gast slides his fingers up the length of Loki’s navel, up toward his chest. Gast has a grin on his face, and Loki wishes he’d obeyed his instincts, wishes he’d run, wishes—

“Why?” Loki whimpers. “Why are you _doing_ this?”

“I told you, baby,” Gast whispers, “I get so, uh, so _bored_ of the humans, you know? I miss real people to play with. And you? Oh, _baby_ , you’re the realest thing I’ve seen in months.” He grabs hold of Loki by the quim once again, and Loki _wails_ , letting out the ugliest little noise as his hips shift up and into the grind of his palm against Loki’s cock. “And the thing is? I’ve been looking for a new girl.”

“I’m _not_ a girl,” Loki snaps, and Gast laughs.

“You think that matters?” He shoves three fingers up and against Loki’s quim, shoving right inside him and splitting him open – two years is a long time to go without being fucked, and Loki _groans_ , arching right off the table with his thighs spreading wide. “Honey, baby, you… You’ve just walked right in. It’s like you’re a _gift_.” Loki whines, feeling the thrust of Gast’s fingers inside him, and he cannot help but fall to pieces under the slow rhythm he begins, fucking Loki with easy fingers. “Because, mmm, honey, I’ve— I’ve been looking to, uh, to diversify here… You’d be just the _perfect_ new girl on the staff.”

“ _No!”_ Gast laughs, and he grabs Loki by the hair with his free hand, pulling him into a kiss. Loki tries to struggle, but the magic seeps into his skin, seeps warm and wonderful through his flesh and makes him pliant. Loki is shivering, breathing shallowly, and he feels Gast’s tongue slide against his own, gloriously dexterous, feels their lips smack against one another. He is wetter than he ever has been, slick running hot down his thighs, and he wishes he could struggle, but he… He simply can’t.

Gast’s magic has done something to his body, something Loki can barely stand, something that makes him flexible and easy, something that fills him with _pleasure_ … Gast draws back from his mouth, and he shifts in a little closer, unbuttoning his trousers. Loki whines as he feels Gast’s cock, thick and inhuman in its segmentation, slide easily inside him.

Gast is grinning down at him, his slick fingers playing over Loki’s cock, and it’s too much, too much – Loki is coming, the coil in his chest suddenly unravelling, and he wails, his back arching, his hips grinding down against the awful press of Gast’s cock. He feels his quim clench uncontrollably, and people are letting out soft sounds of interest as they crowd around to watch him, and Loki cannot bear the humiliation of it, the _debasement_. Loki’s cock is twitching, come spattering between their bellies, and Gast laughs, grinding himself in all the harder.

“You, uh, you understand, baby?” Gast asks, and his fingers move to Loki’s mouth, shoving themselves inside. Loki chokes on the taste of himself, and Gast beams down at him, _beams_ , and says, “You know, you… You’re just so _pretty_. I’m gonna spend all day tomorrow, honey, dolling you up, really— Really making the, uh, right thing outta you. How much do you think— How much would you pay for a piece of this, Henry?” Gast asks, but he doesn’t look at Galette. He keeps his eyes on Loki’s, keeps his fingers, slick with Loki’s juices, crammed down his throat. Loki groans, feeling his skin crawl, feeling his stomach _flip_.

“Thirty dollars,” Galette answers, immediately: Gast’s magic is at work, Loki suspects. “Maybe thirty-five.” The hand in Loki’s mouth slides over his chest, thumb playing over the nipple there.

“ _Wow_ ,” Gast purrs, and he slides his other hand into Loki’s hair, pulling the bun undone and leaving Loki’s hair dropping around his shoulders. “ _Thirty-five dollars_. Gee, baby, you’d really, ha, you’d really rake in the cash. You’d only have to work here, mmm, maybe two years, before you earned that apothecary.”

“No,” Loki whimpers, shaking his head, and Gast rolls his hips in further, bursting heat swelling hot in Loki’s belly, splitting him open. “ _Please_ , let me go, just let me—”

“I wanna see you come again,” Gast whispers. “Won’t you, uh, won’t you come for me, Lo-Lo? I wanna see you…” Magic tingles over Loki’s skin, and his cock is enveloped in tight heat, making Loki cry out. Gast is thrusting harder, the slap of his flesh against Loki’s arse obscene, and Loki will die, Loki will die, Loki will _die_ —

Gast’s come spurts into him hot and wet and impossibly heavy, and Loki chokes on it, chokes and struggles and comes to pieces. Gast fucks him through his own orgasm, makes Loki come a second time, and Loki is powerless under the tremors that run through his body. When Gast leans back, his cock coming slickly from Loki’s speared open quim, Loki feels himself sob.

He cannot stop himself, cannot stop the hot tears that roll down his cheeks, He feels Gast’s come drip from him, feels himself open, and he is consumed with the shame of it, unable to do anything but sob. “Aw, sweetie,” Gast says, his voice full of sympathy, and he drags Loki to the edge of the table, pulling him close. Loki is stiff in his arms, but he can’t bear to struggle: Gast is just so warm, and so _gentle_. He drags his mouth over the side of Loki’s head, and Loki shivers, has to restrain himself from gagging. “Honey, just… _accept_ this. I want companionship – _you_ want companionship. You want that apothecary and, mmm, I wanna sell it to you.”

“But I have _money_ , I’ve been prospecting for— I have money, I can pay—”

“No fun,” Gast whispers. “Where’s the fun in just… _money_ , honey? Don’t you, uh, don’t you know there’s other things in the world?” Loki feels sick. The pleasurable sensation is fading away quickly, and Loki is just a shaking mess in Gast’s arms, shaking… “But really, baby, what would you— What would you rather? Do the job and, um, and earn your cute little storefront… Or do the job because I _make_ you, and get nothing?” He takes Loki up, barely wrapped in the too-tight fabric of his jacket, and Gast carries him through the crowd as if it doesn’t matter, carries him easily up the stairs. Loki is trembling, pressed as tightly as he can to Gast’s surprisingly steady chest, and he bites down hard on his lip as Gast brings him into Loki’s room, laying him down on the bed.

He catches Loki in a kiss again, and this time, Loki bites him, bites at his tongue, but he doesn’t draw blood: it just makes Gast laugh. He straddles Loki, pinning him down on the bed, and Loki stares up at him.

Gast smiles, softly, distantly.

“You know what— You know what really cinched it for me, honey? You know… You wanna know what really made me, mmm, really take you on board? When you went through that whole little _rigamarole_ , turning me down, saying you weren’t in the mood, and that you didn’t wanna…” Gast kisses him again, and Loki moans helplessly at the heat of his tongue, at the weight of Gast’s body straddling his own. “And then you came up here and touched your pretty little self for _hours_. I watched you, and I just thought, ha, I just thought _gee_. This is a sight somebody’d pay for – and that’s without getting to touch.”

Gast perches on Loki’s thighs, looking down at him with his lips twisted in amusement, his fingers spread over Loki’s chest. “Aw, who am I kidding? Soon as I saw that doll face of yours, I— I knew what I was gonna, uh, gonna do.” Gast looks down at him, and that pensive look comes back into his eyes, his fingers playing over Loki’s cheek.

Loki wishes he was dead.

“You’re thinking of this the wrong way, you know,” Gast murmurs, his tone soft and sweet and _gentle_. “Sweetie, you’re, uh, _beautiful_. You know that? You’re gorgeous, I, I was serious when I said it was a waste to see you down in the mines, or wrapped up in hard work.” Loki shivers, hates the way the praise digs into his skin like a thorn, hates, _hates_ … “Okay, okay. Apothecary ain’t enough, huh?”

“ _Nothing_ would be enough,” Loki says harshly.

“Really?” Gast asks, and he leans in closer, dragging his mouth over Loki’s sternum, his hands either side of Loki’s head. “Mmm, how about— How about _this_? You work for me, honey, you do what I say, for just two years. Not, uh, not just the brothel stuff, but you’re— Ha, you ain’t getting outta that. I’ll give you the apothecary, baby, but what if I gave you the town?”

“I don’t want the town.”

“County?”

“I don’t _want_ the county.”

“Power?”

“I—” Loki stops short. He looks Gast in the face, looks at the glitter in his eyes.

“Mmm, that’s different, huh?”

“How would I know that you would hold your end of the bargain? You told me you’d let me walk out of here tomorrow morning.”

“Guess you don’t know, baby,” Gast murmurs. “But wouldn’t you give it up for a little bit of power? That’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? The whole, mmm, I’m a _big man_ game, the cute little suits and the popularity game, ain’t that all you— That’s all you _need,_ honey. Powerless all your life, right? Always in somebody else’s shadow?”

Loki stiffens, and Gast grins.

“What would you risk, baby, for a, uh, for a little bit of sun? Isn’t it worth the gamble?”

“You’re a monster,” Loki whispers. Gast laughs, and he presses a kiss to Loki’s nose.

“Mmm, you’re damn right, baby. But you know what they say. Better the devil you know…” He snaps his fingers, dimming the oil lamps, and Loki expects him to drag away, but Gast lies slowly on his side, dragging Loki right against his body. Loki should hate it, should struggle and pull away, but Gast presses his face to Loki’s neck, nuzzles into his hair, makes him—

It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not _fair_ —

“Just a little bit of sun, sweetie,” Gast says softly against his ear, and he squeezes him nice and tight. “Just think of that.” Loki thinks of taking En Dwi Gast to pieces, ripping him limb from limb, and leaving his blood spattered on every surface in this damned town.

Gast laughs against his ear.

“Mmm, okay, Lo-Lo,” he murmurs. “Whatever works as your lullaby.”

**\--- ♤ ---** **♧ ---** **♡ ---** **♢ ---**

Loki stands up very straight, and he allows the petticoats to be gently lowered over his head. Each silken layer is a little less soft than the others, and Loki bites at his lip as Gast draws the light blouse over his undershirt he wears, lacing it up neatly. “If we, uh, if we lace the corset up tight enough, baby, you’re— You’re gonna have a real nice set—”

“I’m a shapeshifter,” Loki says, and Gast tuts at him, shaking his head.

“No, baby, no, no, you don’t get it. We’re not— We’re not selling you as a _girl_.”

“You keep calling me a girl. Are you just demented, or—” Gast smacks him across the face, and Loki spits out a noise of pain. His head is thrown hard to the side, the sound of it ringing through the room, and Loki’s cheek burns with the heat of it. Loki shudders, and he clenches his fists tightly at his side.

“We’re not— You’re not getting this. We’re not selling you as a _girl_ , baby,” Gast says patiently, his hands gently cupping Loki’s cheeks and forcing him to look Gast in the face. “We’re selling you as a man, dressed _up_ as a girl. That’s why people pay ten dollars extra.”

“You’re mad.”

“Maybe a lil bit,” Gast murmurs, and he catches Loki in a kiss. It’s impossibly good, making Loki gasp out a noise against his mouth, and when he draws away, Loki is left slightly dizzy. Gast returns with a corset, and Loki inhales, inflating his lungs as best he can, as Gast neatly brings the two halve of the corset about his body, and brings them together in the back. As he begins to lace them, so tightly they constrict Loki’s airflow, Loki remains very, very still. Gast kisses the back of his neck, and Loki does his best not to shiver, not to drag himself away.

He finishes with a flourish, and Loki glances down at his own chest, where his pectoral muscles have been pressed up and together, making them look like they have a swell to them—

Loki’s eyes are hot, and Gast clucks his tongue, pulling on a cowl to his broad, square shoulders. It does little to smooth them into a curve, and Loki glares at Gast, even as Gast’s palms slide warm over his neck.

“Make-up now,” Gast murmurs. “You’ll like this bit.”

“I don’t think that I will.”

“Okay, uh, maybe you won’t – but you’ll, uh, you’ll like it more than the job, huh? You want a kiss?” A pause stretches out between them. Loki should say no – Gast will punish him, yes, but he should say no regardless, out of pride, out of self-respect, out of— But it feels good. It feels _good_ when Gast kisses him, good, and Loki hates it, hates it, but…

 Loki presses his lips together, and then, slowly, he nods his head. Gast beams at him, _beams,_ looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt.

This kiss is the best one yet.

Loki despises him for it, and yet, and yet— But the power Gast might give him, if he really _does_ let Loki through – and he won’t, he won’t, but _if_ he does…

Perhaps it’s worth the gamble.

 **FIN**.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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